Regrets of the Fallen
by cindy123
Summary: Entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires...my very first one! In saving three, one musketeer falls, but will there be regrets? Could or could not be viewed as a deathfic...it all depends on how you want to see it.


**This is an entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires, "Regret". My very first foray into the forums! It's very short, but very emotional. Please don't hate me.**

 **Regrets of the Fallen**

He lay there silently, eyes wide open, but seeing only smoke with a glimpse of blue sky here and there. He knew his injuries were bad, that he probably would not survive this day, but he was not afraid, nor did he regret what he had done. His brothers were alive and that was what mattered. He chose to do what he did to save them and their lives were worth the risk of giving up his own. A tear slipped from one eye, slowly marking a trail through the soot and blood on his temple, only to catch in his hair rather than drip to the bloodied earth beneath him. He did have regrets…many regrets. He would never know the joy of bouncing a child on his knee, a child that looked like him. He would never again sit in camaraderie with his brothers, his heart filled with joy at the sound of their voices raised in laughter, or hear the soft whispers of the woman he loved as they lay together in their bed at night. He regretted the future they had discussed that he would now never be able to give her. He regretted the tears that she and his brothers would shed for him, regretted that his actions would be responsible for those tears. Yes, he had many regrets, but saving his comrades, his friends, his brothers would never be one of them. They were alive and that was what mattered.

He suddenly gasped, a new wave of pain ripping through him and all thoughts of regret disappeared as he sought out his brother's voices. Oh how he hoped that he would see them one more time before the life faded from his eyes. He wished he could see her one more time as well, but he knew that was an impossible dream, for she was miles away, happily baking cake no doubt, preparing the evening meal she had planned for he and his brothers to celebrate the day of his birth. He let out a mirthless chuckle at the reminder that not only was today the day he would leave this earth, but it was also the day the earth had greeted him for the first time all those years ago. Such irony, he thought, to die on ones birthday. He would have chuckled again, but suddenly there were faces above him…his hopes had been granted. They were here now, alive, and he couldn't help but smile even as the agony raged on.

Athos…Aramis…Porthos. His comrades, his friends, his brothers. They were here and they would take him home to his Constance. Home to his true love. He could see the anguish in their faces and the tears in their eyes and he wanted to tell them that it was okay, that he had chosen to save them, but he couldn't get his voice to work, save for the groans as they touched him, pressed on his body in their attempts to stave the flow of blood. He felt fingers comb through his hair and looked up into the pained eyes of Aramis.

"d'Artagnan, lay still, my brother. Everything will be okay. We are here now," the medic soothed.

"'mis…s'kay," d'Artagnan breathed out weakly, his hand lifting, reaching out for the warmth of another hand, which Aramis obliged, gently squeezing as he continued to gaze into his youngest brother's eyes.

"Ya gone and done yerself real good this time, pup," Porthos' shaky, deep voice called, forcing d'Artagnan to shift his gaze from one set of brown eyes to another.

"'s always how I do it, P'th's," d'Artagnan replied as he stared up at the large man.

Porthos let out something between a chuckle and a sob and nodded his head. "That ya do, pup…that ya do," he said as an errant tear spilled over to drop down upon d'Artagnan's jacket.

d'Artagnan swallowed against the pain and sadness that filled him then again shifted his gaze from one brother to the next when he felt his other hand being taken up. He met blue eyes and felt his heart clench at the storm he saw within their depths. Anger, pride, love, grief…all were there in those eyes and it was all the Gascon could do to keep from sobbing. He had put that look in Athos' eyes, in all of their eyes, but still he could not feel sorry for what he had done. They were alive and that was all that mattered.

"Why, d'Artagnan? How could you have done this?" Athos asked, his voice tight with sorrow, eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

d'Artagnan smiled warmly and squeezed Athos' hand with all the strength he could muster. "You are my brothers. How could I have not?" he asked in reply.

With the very last bit of strength he had, he whispered one more thing to his beloved friends. "In this, my brothers, I have no regrets." And then, his eyes drifted shut.

 **The End**

 **I know, I know. Once again, please don't hate me!**

 **Cindy**


End file.
